


Sleeping Arrangements

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [16]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Awkward Romance, Besha Being His Usual Bratty Self, Class Differences, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Forced Orgasm, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Slash, Oslovs Don't Believe in Slavery But They Kind of Practice It Anyway, Ownership, Politics, Power Imbalance, Rape Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: Tilrey is still Gersha's kettle boy. They're still trying to figure out how to make their unorthodox, semi-secret relationship work—and that means ironing out some bedroom matters.This is an interstitial story that takes place after the events of "A Serviceable Boy" (except the epilogue) but before the stories that follow.
Relationships: Tilrey Bronn/Gersha Gádden
Series: The Key to Oslov [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1193242
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the title, this story is not all smut, but it's not devoid of smut, either. ;) All the warnings that apply to "A Serviceable Boy" also apply here.
> 
> For the backstory of the photos of Tilrey, see the [prologue to "Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part 1."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970334/chapters/57653833) This story will also fill in some of the backstory of Councillor Lindahl, which figures in the second and third Brothel stories.

_September, year 347_

Of all the social events Gersha had to suffer through when he would rather be home in bed, Councillor Verán’s gatherings were the worst. It didn’t help that they always ended with Tilrey in someone else’s bed and not his.

“Shall I brew another pot, Fir?” Tilrey was clearing the tea things from the table in the majority leader’s vacation villa. He had on his snow-white tunic with the deep blue piping and his kettle boy face: glazed eyes and a look of slightly sullen indifference.

Gersha knew the mask was a tool Tilrey used to keep men like Verán ignorant of how sharp he was and how closely he watched them. He hated it anyway.

“No, I don’t think so.” Verán had been drinking sap in steady dribs and drabs for the past two hours. His eyes were looking a little glazed, too. “I think we’ve had enough stimulants,” he said, his gaze moving around the handful of remaining guests. “Fetch the black folder on the shelf under the console table in my bedroom.”

Tilrey bobbed his head and went out. He, too, had been sapping—three doses by Gersha’s count, all served from Verán’s palm—but his movements were still crisp.

Whenever they were with Verán, Gersha found himself worrying about Tilrey’s sap tolerance. He’d dared to ask about it only once, and Tilrey pointed out that Verán liked feeding him sap and he couldn’t very well refuse. “I can handle it, Fir,” he said. “I don’t dip on my off-days like some do. If you like, I’ll pass you every vial he gifts me to take home.”

The last thing Gersha wanted to do was police Tilrey’s possessions. He had tried that once with disastrous results. So he shook his head firmly and said, “I trust you.”

Now Gersha contemplated the carpet as Verán announced, “I have such a treat for you, Gersha. A surprise.”

At the other end of the sofa, Besha practically bounced with excitement. “Oh, you’re gonna _like_ this.”

_Dignity. Indifference._ Those were the qualities Gersha had to exemplify at these gatherings. “I may be a little old for surprises,” he said, raising his eyes to find Tilrey returning with the folder. The other Island Councillors looked tired and sluggish, ready to go home, but most of them still followed the boy’s tall, straight form with hungry eyes.

Besha giggled. From his smug demeanor, no one could have guessed what he, Gersha, and Tilrey had done in private one strange evening in Gersha’s villa. “Old? Did you grow white hairs overnight, Gersha? Can I see them?”

“Shush, you scamp. Don’t torment him.” Rising with the aid of his cane, Verán plucked the folder from Tilrey’s hand and settled himself down between Gersha and Besha. “Wait for me there, love,” he said, waving Tilrey toward his previous seat.

Tilrey sat as directed, no expression on his face. Verán propped the folder on his knee and opened it. “Feast your eyes.”

Gersha’s stomach lurched when he saw a glossy printed photograph. He wanted to look away, to make an aggressive display of indifference, but he couldn’t stop staring, sweat beading on his scalp and temples.

In the image, Tilrey stood before a window wearing only a robe, in profile, his eyes trained away from the viewer on the bleary snowscape outside.

Was this supposed to be erotic? Gersha saw only his lover looking miserable. The picture made him want to go to Tilrey and slip an arm around his waist and jog him out of his funk.

“Very nice,” he said stiffly as Verán replaced the photo with a second, similar one.

His next coherent feeling was anger. Tilrey could have told him these photos existed. _Should_ have told him. He knew how poorly Gersha handled surprises.

Besha was gushing over the “artistry.” “That woman is a genius. She’s the official Brothel photographer, you know.”

Gersha couldn’t let them see he was upset; Verán loved to rile him up. Enrik Lindahl was watching from across the room, too, with hooded eyes. Lindahl was one of the few members of the Island Party who did proper policy research, and he and Gersha had had a decent working relationship—friendly, almost—until one night in the Lounge when Lindahl spoke of Tilrey in a way that disgusted Gersha. The last year had given him new and often unpleasant perspectives on everyone he interacted with.

“He’s not a Brothel whore,” he said now, more loudly than he meant to. “He doesn’t need to be advertised.”

“I should say not. This was Saldegren’s idea,” Verán added, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be held solely responsible. “He engaged the photographer and set the whole thing up—with my permission, of course.”

“Show him the others!” Besha seized the folder and flipped through the photos, practically thrusting them in Gersha’s face. “He starts by the window and moves to the bed. See?”

Gersha did not want to look. Gersha looked. It was lucky Saldegren wasn’t there, because he didn’t think he could have restrained himself from—well, he didn’t know from what. Knowing himself, probably he just would have gotten very red and huffy and stepped out.

The photos of Tilrey by the window were the most innocent of the lot. By the time he reached the bed, the robe was strategically displaced, and then it was gone.

The boy reclined on his belly, then on his back, arching himself toward the camera as if it were a lover. _Come and have me. I dare you._ His eyes glowed with a heat that, until now, Gersha had thought was only ever directed at him—sometimes coaxing, sometimes taunting, sometimes just desperately eager.

They were intimate, obscene images—and the worst of it was, they were beautiful. Feeling as if someone had painstakingly carved his heart out of his chest and tossed it in the trash, Gersha looked away. He tried not to be aware of Tilrey sitting a few yards from them.

“Very pretty work,” he said in his coldest voice. “I have to wonder, though, how are you going to keep these from getting out? We can’t have just anyone gawking at the party’s jewel, can we?”

( _Forgive me_ , he thought in Tilrey’s direction, though he knew perfectly well that he was speaking and acting exactly as Tilrey wanted him to speak and act in front of Verán.)

Verán chuckled and patted Gersha’s knee. Gersha flinched. “Let me worry about that, my lad.”

Besha was grinning jubilantly. “Gersha, you’re _so red_.”

“He’s lovely when he blushes,” Verán said, making heat jump to Gersha’s cheeks again.

The majority leader took the folder from Besha, sorted it out, and handed it to Gersha. “These copies are yours to keep, love.”

_I hate him. I hate him._ But if Gersha didn’t stay in Verán’s good graces, Verán would take Tilrey away. And then who would free Tilrey from this hateful posting once and for all?

Gersha took the folder and forced himself to look the majority leader in the eye, not at all liking the way the old man’s eyes ranged over his own body. “Thank you. I shall, uh, treasure them.”

Besha clicked his tongue. “It’s not like you even need them when you have the real thing in your bed.”

“Stop bickering, children.” Back on the other sofa, Verán reached out easily, carelessly, and pulled Tilrey’s pliant body against his. “It’s not as if you don’t both have your share.”

He settled Tilrey’s head on his shoulder and stroked the bangs back from Tilrey’s forehead, showing no more or less care than he had in handling the photos. “Green knows, I think I spoil you both. A couple of naughty children—one of you a shameless social climber, and the other one always nattering on about reform.”

A few of the other guests laughed. Gersha tensed even as he heard Besha’s sharp intake of breath. The nasty little man played up to Verán better than anyone, but deep down he knew the majority leader despised him, and he despised him right back.

Or so Tilrey said. Tilrey claimed to know Besha’s heart and Verán’s and everyone else’s; he somehow managed to see everything while he was lolling in Verán’s arms with his eyes closed, the very picture of a languid, sweet-drowned whore. And Gersha trusted him, because so far he’d never been wrong.

Verán tousled Tilrey’s hair. “But tonight isn’t for either of you, I think.” His eyes ran over the straggling guests and met Gersha’s, ordering and releasing him to leave at the same time. “Tonight I please myself.”

***

As soon as the goodbyes were said and the last guests had gone home, Verán disentangled himself from Tilrey, pushed him briskly away, and said, “Clean up.”

In the kitchen, Tilrey took as long over the tea things as he reasonably could. His latest dose of sap was wearing off.

He’d made a mistake not telling Gersha about the photos, hoping against hope that Verán would keep them to himself. But the man was constitutionally unable of keeping anything to himself that he thought reflected well on him.

Gersha would stew over this all night and be ready to quarrel in the morning, and Tilrey didn’t want to quarrel. He wanted to spend the last full day of their break in his Fir’s arms, forgetting anyone else existed.

When he returned to the living room, the majority leader was still busy on his handheld, muttering impatiently at an assistant whose research had failed to turn up the facts he needed to support his latest pet bill.

Tilrey obeyed the distracted signal to sit down. To cut short the quarrel with Gersha, he might have to play the victim. _It wasn’t my idea. Saldegren made me._ All true, but no one had forced him to express the sensuality of those photos. No one _could_ force that from him.

Verán ended his call, then did some clicking and held up the screen so Tilrey could see the image there. The Councillor’s gaunt, elegant features were drawn with exasperation. “Why don’t you ever look this way for me?”

It was the most intimate, compromising picture. It captured the moment when Tilrey had been thinking of no one but Gersha.

Tilrey dropped his eyes, grateful that he seldom blushed anymore. “I don’t know, Fir,” he said, slow and thick as if he were very sapped. “I don’t know what way you mean.”

Maybe he overdid the slowness, because Verán slapped him on the cheek—nothing that would bruise. Just a reminder. “Don’t play dumb with me, lad. You know how I hate when you skulk around with that frown on your face.” He pointed at the screen. “Is this boy frowning?”

Tilrey forced himself to look at the image again, cursing the photographer in his heart. Somehow she’d managed to elicit something Verán should never have seen. “No, Fir.”

“No.” Verán took Tilrey by the chin and glanced back and forth between him and the screen. “Who pulled that fire out of you? Was it Saldegren?”

“No, Fir!” Saldegren was on the outs with Verán already, due to the swing votes he’d thrown to Malsha back in the day. It wasn’t in Tilrey’s interest to push them further apart. “Fir Councillor Saldegren wasn’t in the room. It was just me and the photographer.”

“Was she young? Pretty? Did she touch you?”

“Oh no, Fir! And she’s twice my age.”

With a grunt, Verán released him. “You’re the most exasperating piece I’ve ever had. I give you a luxurious home, practically no responsibilities, all the vials you can drink, and you sulk as if I were locking you up and feeding you on rice and water. Then in comes some Drudge with a camera, and suddenly you’re the sweetest, most eager slut in the world.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Is this how you were for Malsha?”

“No! No, Fir.” Verán rarely asked about Malsha these days, but Tilrey knew from experience that the topic was a minefield. If he said something even faintly positive about the former General Magistrate, he would be disloyal. If he said something negative, Verán would laugh, then call him insolent for speaking against his betters.

It couldn’t hurt to tell a bit of the truth. “Fir Magistrate Linnett didn’t like me that way, Fir.” He dropped his eyes. “What you call eager. He said it was more pleasing to him when I was . . . sad. Or in pain.”

“What a pervert the man was.” Verán shook his head reprovingly. “You miss him, though, don’t you, boy?”

“No!” In the first few years after Malsha’s exile, they’d been through this whole question-and-answer at least a dozen times. Back then, Tilrey lied. The ugly truth was that he missed being treated like a person, spoken to like an equal.

But now he had Gersha, and lying was unnecessary. “I never miss him, Fir.”

“I should hope not,” Verán said, still on his high horse. “Besides his other faults, the man was deeply depraved. No sense of boundaries. What he did to my nephew . . .”

Tilrey knew the story of Adelbert Verán. He didn’t ask for details.

“I suppose Malsha must have been hard on you,” Verán added thoughtfully, as if it had just occurred to him. “But it’s no reason for being _difficult._ The lowest Brothel whore can at least smile and make a man feel welcome.”

Tilrey cleared his throat. It was in his power to melt all Verán’s grievances; he had an excellent smile in his repertoire. But he didn’t use it. Didn’t choose to. Even he had boundaries.

“Fir Magistrate Linnett did teach me one useful thing, Fir,” he said.

“Yes, he did. Thank green for that.” Then Verán picked up on the implicit suggestion. “On your knees.”

Many of their conversations ended this way. Tilrey knelt and began stroking Verán through the fabric of his trousers, his hand moving expertly with no input from his brain. Soon enough, the majority leader would be rapturously praising his technique.

“Oh yes. Good.” Verán reached impatiently for Tilrey’s head and tugged it down, his other hand fumbling his trousers open. “Lovely Nettsha. When it comes down to it, you know your business, don’t you?”

Tilrey did know his business, which included every form of touch that Verán liked. He brought his mouth into play and barely felt the cock as it slid down his throat; he was long past shivering with revulsion.

He thought about Gersha, alone at home agonizing over those photos. He hoped he could make Gersha forgive him.

***

Gersha knew it would be morning before Tilrey returned. He also knew Tilrey would come home expecting an ambush from a sleepless, jealousy-addled Gersha, and he was determined not to be that person. Not anymore. If he couldn’t trust Tilrey, why should he be trusted?

So he tucked himself into bed and turned out the light. Instead of sleeping, though, he slid into drowsy reminiscences that stung and smarted.

His spirits had been so high just two days ago, when he and Tilrey woke in Redda on the first morning of the break. It was blissful to lounge in bed for once with all the time in the world.

With his head pillowed on Tilrey’s chest, Gersha broached a topic he’d been considering for a while: “I was wondering, uh . . . why do you have to sleep in that sad little spare room on my worknights? Why not always share this bed with me?”

They both knew why—because kettle boys kept out of the way when they weren’t doing their duties. A year ago, Gersha had been scrupulous about observing all such rules. But his thinking had changed: Tilrey was no normal kettle boy, and their relationship was no normal relationship, and why should they waste another night apart when they could be side by side?

Tilrey didn’t answer. Gersha rolled into a position where he could see those blue eyes—veiled, thoughtful. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Fir Verán wouldn’t be pleased. He sees you as a sort of . . . chaperone for me. Or a custodian.”

Gersha stiffened with distaste—the words made Tilrey sound like a minor or an object. But they were the words Verán would have used. He said, “What Visha doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

“I suppose not.”

Was Tilrey, of all people, objecting to a harmless deception? He looked so troubled—not at all how Gersha had hoped he’d respond. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Gersha repeated. And then, because he could see Tilrey retreating inward, “Don’t just say what you think I want to hear. You know how I feel about that.”

Tilrey sighed. “Would you really have time on worknights, Fir?”

“Time for what?” When Tilrey started calling him _Fir_ , something was usually off between them.

“For . . . you know.” Tilrey ran a caressing hand through Gersha’s hair and down one shoulder—a reminder of last night’s pleasures that sent an electric pulse through Gersha’s body. “I mean, it’s not like I’d mind being with you more often. Far from it. But on worknights you need your rest.”

A laugh caught in Gersha’s throat; he couldn’t seem to release it. “I wasn’t suggesting we have sex every night! You may have that kind of appetite and stamina, but I doubt I do.”

He smiled teasingly and tried to catch his lover’s eye, but those heavy lids were lowered, each lash distinct on Tilrey’s cheek. “I was just thinking we’d _sleep_ together. It’s a nice big bed, and I like sharing it with you.” This was coming out all wrong. “But if you prefer sleeping apart, of course I understand! Maybe the single bed’s more comfortable for you, or my snoring . . .”

Now Tilrey did smile. “You barely snore. I’m the one who wakes you with my nightmares.”

“I don’t mind!” When they were apart, Gersha sometimes worried about Tilrey waking from those nightmares alone, with no one to hold him and rock him back into himself. “You don’t have to give me a reason,” he said. “Truly. If you want to keep sleeping alone on my worknights, if you like that little room, that’s more than enough for me.”

“I didn’t say I like it.” Tilrey sat up, his eyes still evading Gersha’s. “Sleeping here would be just . . . different.”

Gersha could hear it in his voice: _different bad._ His heart sank, but he gave Tilrey a calm kiss on the forehead. “I know I’m jumping the gun. I was just thinking ahead to when Verán releases you, and you’ll be my secretary instead of my kettle boy. It’ll be up to you, of course, whether you want to live with me, but I hope . . . maybe you will?”

“Of course I will! If you’ll have me.” Happiness animated Tilrey’s face, but only for a second. “That could take years, though.”

Gersha certainly hoped not. He planned to put the matter to Verán before Tilrey’s next birthday. But Tilrey’s glum look made his resolve falter, and all he said was “Shall we get up and pack?”

The fact was, Gersha slept better with Tilrey beside him. Look at him now, tossing and turning in bed—and not just because Tilrey was with Visha Verán. No, he was used to that; he could endure it. He could even endure knowing the photos existed, and he vowed to himself he wouldn’t reproach Tilrey for not warning him about them. The way Gersha reacted to these things was reason enough for keeping him in the dark.

No, what tormented him now wasn’t jealousy of Verán or Saldegren or anyone else. It was the fear that Tilrey just didn’t want to be that close to him.

He slept fitfully, waking several times to scowl at the clock that told him it wasn’t time to get up, the light outside the shutters notwithstanding. Toward six, he fell into a deep, restful sleep, from which he woke to the familiar sound of the shower running in the bathroom across the hall.

_He’s here._ But Gersha had promised himself no ambushes, so he rolled over and lay stiffly staring up at the canopy, waiting for Tilrey to come to him.

***

Tilrey pressed his forehead to the tiles and let water sluice over his back. He closed his eyes. After a session, he always gave himself the gift of a long, hot shower, so hot he came out beet-red and pruned and purified.

This must be one of the “luxuries” of being a kettle boy that Verán was always reminding him of. A brothel whore, even at the Sanctioned, wouldn’t have unlimited access to hot water.

_I’m lucky,_ he whispered to himself, still feeling the burn of Verán inside him. The majority leader prided himself on his virility in his golden years, and that meant demonstrating it as vigorously and as often as possible. When he managed to stop complaining about Tilrey’s attitude, he was easy to satisfy—much easier than the near-impotent Magistrate Linden, thank everything green. But it did smart a little afterward.

When Tilrey could no longer tell where the water ended and his skin began, he stopped the flow and stepped out to towel off. He peered through the steam, half-expecting to find Gersha waiting for him.

No Fir to be seen—good. It was early yet, and Gersha could use a decent night’s sleep.

So could he. Through sheer determination, Tilrey had taught himself to turn off like a light and sleep beside any bed partner, no matter how abhorrent, but it was a shallow sleep that left his eyelids heavy the next day. He spent the mornings after his worknights lounging in his own bed—another luxury, he supposed. A brothel whore might have to service several men in a day and more in a night _._

Why was he thinking about this now—the luxury of having his own bed in his own room? Oh, right. Gersha had asked him to give it up.

Not that he ever had that kind of privacy here in the vacation villa. There was a spare bedroom upstairs with a second bath, intended for guests, but it wasn’t made up. If he wanted to lie down now, his choices were to join Gersha—which might mean waking him and having that quarrel—or to take a quick nap on the living-room sofa.

No contest. Tilrey grabbed a robe from its hook and pulled it on. In the living room, sun flooded through an unshuttered window. He stretched out on the longest sofa and let warmth wash over him, closing his eyes against the brightness.

This was the life. An R-11 sofa was as springy and accommodating as any bed, and the whole villa was so well heated that he would have been just as comfortable naked.

He would go in to Gersha in a minute. Just a minute or two.

Poor Gersha had looked so troubled when he asked if Tilrey preferred sleeping apart from him. As if he suddenly wondered whether Tilrey wouldn’t rather sleep with him than with anyone else in the world.

_I could have settled his mind on that score._ But once Tilrey had reassured Gersha, how could he explain that he still treasured his nights and mornings alone in the tiny single bedroom? How could he explain that when he was with a man, in a Councillor’s big bed, he felt obliged to act certain ways—listen attentively, be attractive, offer himself?

He didn’t doubt that Gersha would be happy to sleep beside him night after night, having sex only when they both wanted to, as if they were equals who’d decided to share their lives. But they weren’t equals. Once Tilrey was in that bed, he was in eternal readiness. He couldn’t focus on anything but Gersha. And if Gersha never reached for him, never looked longingly at him, he would feel he’d failed.

He rolled over and pressed his cheek to the sofa, feeling sleep sneak up on him. All the fuss of being a proper piece was way too exhausting to go through every night.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had moved down his body and was baking his chest where the robe parted. A kettle whistled from the kitchen.

Gersha! Tilrey swung his feet onto the floor, still groggy. Gersha had come through here from the bedroom and seen him on the couch. _Damn it_.

He was about to get up when his Fir came in, fully dressed and carrying the tea tray. _Damn again._ “I’m so sorry.” Tilrey rose and reached for the tray. “I should be doing that—”

“No, love.” Gersha dodged him and set the tray on the table. “Not today.” He gave Tilrey a glance that was stern and furtive at once. “Please just sit down.”

“But I make us breakfast,” Tilrey said helplessly, sitting. “When we’re on vacation, at least.”

“I’m quite capable of making porridge. I do it for myself every work morning.” With impeccable dignity, Gersha swept back into the kitchen. “You can pour the tea if you like, but _relax_. Lie down, the way you were before.”

Tilrey didn’t lie down. It was hard enough to sit there and let Gersha serve him. “Is there something wrong, Fir?” he asked, pouring the tea. “Is this because of last night? I’m so sorry about that. I should have told you about those damned photos.”

Gersha put two bowls of porridge on the table and sat down beside Tilrey. He wore a dove-gray tunic and trousers today, and his curls, still damp from his own shower, stood out against pale cheeks. He looked so delicate and stubborn at once, like a holy man in an ancient wood-cut, that Tilrey’s heart skipped a beat.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Gersha said as if he’d rehearsed the words. “None of it was your idea.”

Whose idea it was didn’t matter. Tilrey knew that. “She gave me sap,” he said, lowering his eyes in a way he knew perfectly well was coy. “The photographer. She wanted me ‘relaxed,’ she said.”

“I guess she and I have that in common. Wanting to see you loosen up a little.”

“No, but you don’t understand, Gersha.” Tilrey looked up through his lashes. “Once I was a little woozy, she asked me to imagine someone I cared about. I . . . did.”

For a moment, silence. Then Gersha said, “Just look at me. Please.”

Tilrey looked. Gersha’s cheeks had gone the faintest pink, and his sea-green eyes were shining, though it wasn’t clear with what emotion.

“If you’re deceiving me, it will kill me,” he said in a low voice. “Not about this in particular—this isn’t important—but in general. If you’re playing with me, telling me what I want to hear . . . I’d rather you were cruel to me. Or cold, like you are to the others. You understand?”

Tilrey nodded. _Nearly a year ago, I told you I love you. Isn’t that enough?_

Instead he said, “I like to read in bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“It might be awkward,” Tilrey explained. Then he realized he’d skipped to the topic of their last disagreement without warning.

Gersha looked so beautiful, his blush deepening with his confusion, that Tilrey closed the distance without thinking. He tangled his fingers in his Fir’s curls and pulled him close and nipped his bottom lip. Gersha’s mouth opened readily under the first kiss, and the second was hotter and deeper, Gersha moaning as they came apart.

Tilrey’s instinct was to reach for the Councillor’s cock and bring it to life under his palm. But his hand froze in midair. Last night had been tiring. If he was being honest, what he still needed right now was rest.

And Gersha wanted him to be honest. _Actually_ honest, not just about things that flattered or pleased them both. Hadn’t he just dramatically announced that deception would kill him?

So Tilrey didn’t take things to the next level. He rolled over and eased his head and shoulders down into Gersha’s lap, bringing his bare feet off the ground to stretch his legs. “Is this okay?” he asked. He’d slept with his head in men’s laps before, of course, but it wasn’t something he usually initiated.

“It’s very okay.” Gersha’s voice caught. His fingers buried themselves in Tilrey’s hair, moving gently over his scalp and waking nerve endings Tilrey hadn’t known existed. “When I came in here and saw you sleeping . . .”

Tilrey closed his eyes and leaned into the sensations. “You wondered why I wasn’t with you.”

Deft fingers smoothed stray locks back from his forehead. “No. I thought you were beautiful lying there in the sunlight.”

After a bit, Tilrey said, “We could try it sometimes. Sharing the bed. When I want to sleep alone, though, you should know, that doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

And Gersha said, “I understand. In my house, you’ll always sleep wherever you want.”

They stayed that way for an hour or more, the sun moving up Tilrey’s body inch by inch. Sometimes he dozed, soothed by those stroking fingers, and sometimes he let Gersha feed him sips of tea.

“It’s just easier alone,” he admitted at one point. He must have been half-asleep, or he wouldn’t have been so blunt. “Especially after . . . when it’s been a hard night. I need time to myself then.”

Gersha’s thumb traced his hairline. “I understand,” he said again.

“You don’t, though. That’s okay. You can’t.” Tilrey reached up and cupped Gersha’s face, frustrated by the fatigue that made it hard to sustain a thought. “But I don’t always feel that way. Sometimes I like having someone with me.”

***

“Bring a book to bed tonight,” Gersha said later in the day, as they sat in the steaming tub after a bracing hike through the woods.

Tilrey did that looking-up-through-the-lashes thing that was so frustrating and so irresistible at once. “Tonight? But it’s the last night of your vacation. I thought we’d . . . do something else.” Under the water, his thigh nudged Gersha’s, promising all kinds of things.

“Bring a book anyway.” Then, worried he was giving orders, Gersha added, “I just want you to know you can.”

That night they sat by the gas fire for a long time, sprawled on the sofa and each other, discussing the upcoming Council session. After a while, the talk gave way to kissing and touching. Gersha whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “Let’s go to bed.”

In the bedroom, Tilrey produced a Library book from behind his back and presented it to Gersha with a saucy grin. “As requested, Fir. I’m not actually sure I feel like reading tonight.”

Gersha ached to close the distance and tug Tilrey down on the bed and rip his clothes off. But some variation of that was usually what they did, and tonight they needed to try something new. He straightened his back. “Lie down, love. Read to me. I want to hear how your Harbourer accent is coming along.”

An impish look came over Tilrey’s face. He pulled off his indoor boots, stretched out on the bed to his full, imposing length, and opened the book. “ _When the princess realized that Lady Carraway had invited her to the soirée to pick her brain about Sogwump’s liaison with Meggy Harpnell, she was disappointed . . .”_

It was a modern Harbourer novel, all satire and aristocratic politics, the sort of thing that Gersha found less interesting than Tilrey did. But Tilrey’s deep voice had a pleasant throb to it, and his accent was convincing, so Gersha found it easy to tune out the words.

Sitting beside Tilrey, he gingerly unclasped the neck of his lover’s tunic. “No, no, don’t help me with it. Keep reading.”

Tilrey did, shifting positions to make it easier for Gersha to undress him. He somehow managed to put the book down so Gersha could tug his shirt off, roll over, and pick the book up again without missing a beat.

When Gersha eased the trousers over Tilrey’s hips, his hand brushed a rigid, straining bulge. He gasped, arousal kindling in his own belly. Tilrey tensed at the touch, but his elocution remained as proper as if he were reading the _Council Record_ : _“‘I never heard of such a scandal,’ said the princess to Flinthill with a trilling, flirtatious laugh._ ”

What would it be like to have that sort of composure? Right now, though, Gersha had no patience for the story. He shoved Tilrey gently down on his back, seized hold of his cock, and bent over to mouth it through the briefs.

Tilrey’s hips lurched gratifyingly, and his voice hitched. But he kept right on reading, holding the book aloft. “ _Mortified by Flinthill’s disregard for her best crockery, Lady Carraway ordered her major-domo to sweep up the pieces.”_

Touching Tilrey without making skin contact was indescribably provoking. Gersha used his tongue to moisten the tight fabric around the cockhead, licked down the shaft a few times, and then gave his attention to the ripe fullness of the scrotum. By the time he finally peeled the briefs off hot, flushed skin, Tilrey’s voice was wavering a little. He didn’t stop, though. “ _Lord of light, the princess thought, these people have no notion of propriety._ ”

Gersha teased his lover in the merciless way he’d learned from the best. He withdrew his hand and mouth from Tilrey’s cock and worked his way up Tilrey’s chest, licking and sucking and nipping, raising his own hips to make Tilrey strain toward him, desperate for friction.

“No notion of propriety, indeed,” he whispered in Tilrey’s ear, drawing a naughty smile that encouraged Gersha to stop the reading for the length of a breathless kiss.

When their lips parted, Tilrey resumed where he’d left off, holding the book out of the fray. Working his way down again, Gersha nuzzled the groove that delineated Tilrey’s hip from the muscled abdomen. He reclaimed the engorged organ and sheathed it in his mouth, taking it as deep as he could without gagging.

Tilrey’s reading became choppy, his pronunciation terrible, but Gersha was barely listening. His own cock was hard and heavy between his legs, eager for attention, but it could wait. At last he withdrew just enough to say, “Stop reading now, love. Come for me.”

That strong body bucked up against his, finding release at last. Gersha closed his eyes and held on, following it through a seemingly endless spasm. Then he rested his cheek on Tilrey’s collarbone and listened as the boy’s breathing slowed to an even pulse.

“I hope I’m getting better at that,” he said almost shyly.

Tilrey’s laugh was half-moan. “My only complaint . . . is that we were _almost_ at the end of a chapter.”

***

All in all, their last night in the villa was an excellent one. Still, that wasn’t _quite_ what Tilrey had meant when he said he liked to read in bed.

For their first ten-day back in Redda, he did not come to Gersha. When he wasn’t required elsewhere, he followed standard procedure and slept in his own room, luxuriating in the freedom not to dress, smile, or behave for anyone else’s pleasure. True to his word, Gersha didn’t knock on his door or bring the matter up, and for that Tilrey was grateful.

But he was starting to feel like a coward. So, on Gersha’s next worknight, he changed for bed in his own room and came into Gersha’s.

The Fir was busy in his study, that locked room that Tilrey had never entered. The bedroom, by contrast, was familiar territory, though it felt strange to switch on the canopy lights and slip into bed without Gersha there. Like trespassing.

Reminding himself, _He wants this_ , Tilrey positioned a pillow behind his head, opened his book, and tried to read. But the words swam before his eyes.

His instincts kept sounding the alarm: He wasn’t supposed to pursue his hobbies in an Upstart’s space. He wasn’t supposed to be wearing his crappy T-shirt and long johns. He was supposed to be naked, attractive, _ready._

When Gersha finally entered the room, nearly an hour later, Tilrey was vastly relieved. Now, at last, he could justify his presence.

He fought the impulse to rise and go to Gersha and kiss him, though, lowering the book instead. If he were Gersha’s equal, how would he act? “I thought . . . maybe I could sleep here tonight.”

“Of course!” Gersha looked startled, but not displeased. “This is your bed, too, love.” With pointed casualness, he undressed and put on his own pajamas.

Tilrey gave up trying to read and watched the process from the corner of his eye. Was this how the Fir prepared for bed when he was alone? But no, Gersha seemed self-conscious, too. This was hard on them both.

When Gersha slid into bed, Tilrey had to conquer another impulse to turn to him and let the covers fall seductively from his body. It would be so easy, but he was here to _read._ To _sleep._ Nothing else. It felt so wrong.

“I could read to you again,” he said, unwonted heat rising to his cheeks. “It doesn’t have to be this book. I could fetch the _Council Record_.”

Gersha huffed a laugh. “That might give me nightmares. Does Verán really make you read Council transcripts in bed?”

“Sometimes.”

Gersha reached under the headboard shelf and worked the toggles, extinguishing the lights on his own side of the canopy. “Honestly, I’m wiped out. But you read as long as you like,” he added, burrowing into the covers and adjusting his pillow. “It doesn’t bother me. Truly.”

_Doesn’t it?_ Tilrey forced his eyes along a line of words that made no sense. He stole a glance at Gersha. The Fir had closed his eyes but didn’t look remotely like he was falling asleep—his posture studied, his shoulders stiff. _This is ridiculous._

He was about to give up and make an excuse to leave when Gersha rolled over so his forehead pressed against Tilrey’s hip. At last, here was something that felt right. Tilrey sighed and ran a tentative hand through the black curls, feeling Gersha’s body relax. He relaxed a little in his turn.

“You don’t have to pretend, Fir,” he said. “If it’s awkward, if it’s uncomfortable . . .”

Gersha shook his head fiercely, grinding it against Tilrey’s hip. “I don’t want it to be awkward. I want you with me.”

Tilrey twined a curl around his finger. “I’ve always been alone on my Councillors’ worknights,” he said, feeling that he owed Gersha a bit more context. “Except once, when Fir Magistrate—Malsha—came into my room.”

Gersha tensed. “That wretched man.”

“He apologized for interrupting me. He said he’d come from a very stressful meeting and he needed help relaxing so he could sleep.”

That was bullshit, of course; Tilrey knew it, and Malsha knew he knew it. What Malsha got off on was knocking him off-kilter, seeing him flustered and miserable. He knew Tilrey’s room was his sanctuary. He knew Tilrey had no power to say no.

Tilrey remembered that night too vividly—the waffle weave of the long johns he’d been wearing. How he apologized for them as he let Malsha peel them off him and bend his knees to his shoulders. How he tried to suggest relocating to the proper bedroom. How Malsha said, “Here is just fine, sweetheart. I won’t bother you for long.”

Indeed, it didn’t take long. It was nothing they hadn’t done a hundred times before. But something about the Magistrate’s brisk, clinical way of using him—there, in his own space—left Tilrey shaken to his core. He managed not to let his feelings show in Malsha’s presence, but he stayed in bed all the next day.

And so, without needing to say it, Malsha reminded him his own room wasn’t his at all.

Gersha made a muffled growl. “I would never. I mean, maybe if it was _your_ idea to do something in your room. But I would never . . .” He seemed to consider. “If I ever asked you to do anything, and you didn’t want to—worknight or free-night, doesn’t matter—you’d say so, right? You wouldn’t just go along with it?”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” Tilrey ran his fingertips over Gersha’s scalp. “You’re not like the others.”

That was true, wasn’t it? If he could convince Gersha, maybe he could convince himself.

“I love you.” Gersha yawned. “Green hells, wrong moment for that. Excuse me.”

“Sweetheart.” Tilrey transferred his eyes to the book again. “Get some sleep.”

_Look at you,_ Malsha whispered inside his head. _Acting like you’re the grown-up in this relationship. One word from him and you’d be on your knees._

Tilrey ignored him. He pretended to read until he was sure Gersha was asleep, and then he turned off the rest of the lights and nestled chastely down beside his Fir and closed his eyes.

One way or another, they would make this work. And all the ghosts of Malsha in the world couldn’t do a thing about it.


	2. Chapter 2

_August, year 348_

“Why on earth would we do that?” Councillor Verán said peevishly. “No, of course not.”

Gersha was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the roaring gas fire in the majority leader’s vacation villa. He couldn’t seem to remember all the arguments he’d been carefully preparing for the past year.

“Tilrey—” He broke off, remembering that the other Islanders insisted on calling Tilrey by that vile shortening of Malsha Linnett’s name. There was a good chance Verán had forgotten the boy even had a name of his own. “ _Nettsha_ has served the party for five years now. And since Bettova is retiring this fall, leaving me without a secretary, I thought maybe . . .”

Verán dipped his finger into a vial and sucked it dry. “The boy can’t replace your Bettova.”

“She’s a gem, yes, with decades of experience. But she could train him. And don’t you think it’s time for the boy to move on to a posting where his talents can be more useful? ”

“I can’t imagine where Nettsha could be more useful than he is now. The boy was born with beauty, not brains.”

 _Don’t correct him. Don’t get angry._ Gersha swallowed hard. If he was going to liberate Tilrey from his position as the Island’s kettle boy, he had to remain calm. Reasonable. Sweetly earnest, even, in the way Verán liked him to be.

“Maybe you underestimate our Nettsha,” he said. “Have you seen his E-Squareds?”

Verán arched a brow. “First I’ve heard that he even took them.”

“It was Malsha’s idea, I think. But—”

“If it was Malsha’s idea for his piece to take the test, then Malsha doctored his scores.” Verán’s tone was scolding and fond at once; he seemed to enjoy setting Gersha straight about how the world worked. “A Councillor’s secretary needs passable E-Squareds, and Malsha always did enjoy converting his whores into his secretaries. Maybe it turned him on, dressing them up and sitting them down at a desk. Personally, though, I like to keep business and pleasure separate. Do you want a secretary so slow on the uptake you have to do half his work for him?”

Gersha bit down on his lip. Tilrey’s “slowness” was a deception Tilrey himself had perpetrated. “I don’t think he’s _quite_ as slow as you think. I’m sure he can handle basic office management tasks.”

“Maybe.” Verán looked skeptical. “You’d have to wean him off his normal dose, though.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem.” Tilrey hardly even drank sap unless Verán gave it to him.

“But the whole discussion is moot, because there’s no _reason_ to take Nettsha out of circulation.” Verán poked his finger in the vial again. “He may not be fresh or exciting, but he’s reliable. He helps me keep the loyalists happy and the swing voters in line.” His brow furrowed as if he were going over the Island’s roster in his head. “Lindahl, for instance—we need that silly prig for the budget vote, and he’s very fond of Nettsha. I packed the boy off to his villa tonight.”

Gersha didn’t want to think about Tilrey spending the night with Enrik Lindahl. “Aren’t you always saying Nettsha’s too sulky for your taste?”

He winced inwardly at the insult to Tilrey. When they were alone, Tilrey sometimes made Gersha laugh by doing a spot-on impression of Verán scolding him for being sulky, sullen, slow, a downer, spacy, passive, out of it. Privately, though, Gersha found all these epithets too unjust to be funny.

“Sulky, yes. He stalks around like a prisoner; it brings down the mood. But _my_ taste doesn’t matter.” The majority leader sighed long-sufferingly. “As long as the others like him, getting a new kettle boy is an unnecessary hassle.”

The sweat on Gersha’s temples had gone ice-cold. He had no brilliant arguments left. He spoke without thinking: “The boy turns twenty-five next month. It just seems like time for him to move on.”

When he looked up again, the old man was staring at him, his refined features drawn with horror. “ _Twenty-five_ , you say?”

“Yes.” He’d assumed Verán knew Tilrey’s age, but then again, Verán didn’t even know Tilrey’s name.

“Verdant hells. That is old.” Verán took a swallow of tea. “I mean, I’ve heard of older ones, but I thought Nettsha was closer to twenty.” He grimaced as if his tea had been spiked with something bitter. “How time flies. I suppose he has been battered around a bit, hasn’t he?”

Gersha winced again, thinking of the bruises Fir Magistrate Linden used to leave on Tilrey. “That’s true,” he forced himself to say evenly. “Not that he’s unattractive, mind you. You know how grateful I am to you for your gift.”

Verán smiled indulgently. “The responsibility’s been good for you. You’ve blossomed, Gersha. You’re more assertive in the Council than you ever were before.”

 _Because he inspires me. Because he cares about this political bullshit more than I ever will._ “I’m very happy right now, Visha. I’m far from complaining.”

“Maybe you want to turn the boy into your secretary so you don’t have to share him with anyone. Eh?” The old man winked.

Gersha forced himself to smile. His heart was thudding. “You’ve found me out.”

“Hah, yes. You naughty hedonist. Still.” Verán frowned. “Twenty-five—that’s so close to thirty. Nothing stays fresh forever.”

Gersha knew he was doing the right thing, even if he hated this whole conversation. He took a deep breath, silently begged Tilrey’s forgiveness, and said, “Maybe you could improve morale by finding something fresher.”

“Maybe. Hmm.” Verán pursed his lips. “But I’ve got no time for these trifles. Tell you what, Gersha my love. You find me a replacement that’s young, sweet-tempered, stunning, preferably untouched, and not too dense—ask Besha, he’s sure to have leads—and then we’ll see about turning poor old Nettsha into your secretary before his hair goes gray.”

***

Tilrey’s hair was still very decidedly golden, just as his cheeks were rosy. But when he saw the guest in Councillor Lindahl’s living room, he blanched. A third party was always an unwelcome sight when he was trying to do his job.

And this third party was a Laborer—a Sector desk worker, judging by his attire and age. What the fuck was he doing here?

Then, all at once, Tilrey remembered a complaint that Lindahl’s kettle boy, Ansha, had made over a card game in the Café: _It’s not my fault my Fir would rather fuck his secretary than me . . ._

Ah. This must be the secretary in question. Wasn’t he a little old for Lindahl, though? Late thirties, by the looks of him—almost as old as the Councillor himself.

“I brought you something,” Lindahl told the secretary imperiously. Releasing Tilrey’s arm, he jabbed a finger at the sofa. “Sit.”

The secretary lowered the book he’d been reading—an old copy of _Council Procedure_. He said to Lindahl as if to an equal, “What the fuck, Enrishka.”

Navigating delicate social situations was never Councillor Lindahl’s strong suit. He glared at Tilrey, who hadn’t moved. “ _Sit_.”

Tilrey sat. He kept his distance from the secretary, sizing him up from the corner of his eye. The man was certainly attractive enough to be the Councillor’s bed partner, with curvy lips and a lush mop of red-gold curls. But he sat on the sofa with his feet up and his clothes in disarray, just like a family member. A half-empty vial poked from his front pocket.

“What the fuck,” he repeated. “You brought me the Island’s kettle boy?”

If Tilrey had ever taken that tone with Lindahl, the Councillor might have slapped him. But now Lindahl’s handsome face showed only concern. “This one’s nothing like Ansha,” he told the secretary soothingly. “He’s a well-educated boy, a discreet boy. He’ll be nice to you.”

“Well, in _that_ case.” The secretary sat up and held his hand out to Tilrey. “I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, well-educated, discreet boy. I’m Svanner, Eivan. Fir Councillor’s secretary. And you—well, you’re the Island’s most precious jewel, aren’t you? The one Verán brags about fucking on the Council table. Was that hard on your knees?”

“Eivanka.” But Lindahl sounded tired, as if he were used to this behavior. “He _is_ the Island’s most precious jewel. Try to be polite.”

Eivan gave Tilrey a frank sizing up. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something loose and volatile about his manner. “How very honored I am,” he said. “Imagine, a wretched creature like me socializing with such a vision.”

Councillor Lindahl was gloomy and unsociable by nature, and Tilrey had endured plenty of his bad moods. But he’d never seen Lindahl animated by the tension that was visible in his body now as he stalked the room, looking ready to strike his secretary or kiss him.

“This is a _gift_ ,” he said. “You’re always complaining that I abandon you to pursue my pleasures, so I thought I’d share one of those pleasures with you.”

“Oh?” Eivan pointed at Tilrey, then at himself, his eyes wide with surprise that might have been sarcastic or genuine. “You want . . . us? To be together?”

Tilrey was certainly surprised. Being shared with a Councillor’s secretary was nothing new for him—Malsha had seen to that—but he hadn’t expected Lindahl to go in for threesomes or voyeurism. He wished he’d had advance warning, but that wasn’t Lindahl’s style.

“I’m at your disposal, Fir. Both of you,” he said, dropping his eyes to make the secretary a little more comfortable. This night would be unbearable if they didn’t help each other through it.

Eivan barked a laugh. “Isn’t he obliging. Is that what you want, Enrishka? To watch me have the Island’s jewel? Or to watch him have me?”

The Councillor seemed intensely uncomfortable with this situation of his own creation. “I don’t want to watch you with anyone,” he snapped. “You know that. He’s _your_ gift, so why don’t you go in the bedroom and enjoy him?”

Eivan grinned nastily. “What a sexy invitation, Fir Councillor. You’ve really got me in the mood now.”

While Tilrey was trying to decide what to do next, the Councillor whipped his head upright to show them both the angry elegance of his high-Upstart features. “I said _go_. Both of you. Out of my sight. Eivanka, you’ve been moping this whole trip, and you’re working my last nerve. You’re supposed to make me _laugh_.” His jaw quivered. “And you.” He pointed at Tilrey. “I don’t want to see your face again till you’ve made him happy.”

The amusement had melted from Eivan’s face. He stood up and offered his arm to Tilrey. “We better do as the Fir says.”

Tilrey shot a glance at Lindahl to make sure the man wasn’t testing him in some perverse way. But Lindahl wasn’t looking back. His eyes were on Eivan, and the liquid wistfulness in them was surprisingly familiar.

Gersha. Gersha looked at Tilrey in that longing way.

The surprise of seeing that expression on Lindahl’s face made Tilrey forget his objections. “Of course, Fir,” he said, rising to let the secretary lead him into the bedroom.

Better to service one man than both of them. Too bad, though, that the secretary seemed to despise him.

Once they were inside, Eivan dropped Tilrey’s arm as if it burned him. He closed the door behind them and locked it.

Then he went to the Councillor’s bed, flopped down full length as if it were his own, and slipped the vial out of his pocket. “Verdant fucking hells,” he said, dipping a finger in. “I hope you really are discreet, kid. My Fir’s not quite himself tonight.”

Tilrey sat down on the edge of the bed, relieved that Eivan agreed with him. “Is Fir Councillor okay?”

“Oh, Fir Councillor’s just fine. Top of the world. Hunky-dory.” Eivan sucked sap from his finger. “I don’t know if you heard, but he had a loss in the family. It’s taking him a while to get over it.”

Verán had mentioned something about that, but it was back in the dark days before Gersha that all merged in Tilrey’s head. And Lindahl himself never discussed personal affairs with a kettle boy. “His nephew died?” Tilrey asked.

“Right.” The secretary’s eyes were a little too bright. “His _favorite_ nephew. Garsha. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard the whole story.”

“The Hargist boy who wandered out into the Wastes.” And then, putting together two fuzzy memories, Tilrey added, “It was him and the Linnett boy together, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. You know the Linnett kid?”

“A little.” Valgund Linnett—Malsha’s grandson, Vera’s brother. When the boys were brought back from their abortive attempt to escape the city, Verán practically crowed over this new source of shame for the family of his nemesis. But the Linnett boy had survived his hike into the Wastes, while the other one—young Garsha Lindahl—had not.

“It’s better for the family this way,” Verán had told his inner circle, his voice thick with unconvincing sympathy. “That child was an embarrassment to them from the moment of his conception.”

And one Councillor muttered to another, just loud enough for Tilrey to hear, “ _Misbirth_.”

At the time, Tilrey hadn’t thought much of it, but now he couldn’t make things add up. If Councillor Lindahl’s nephew was really a misbirth, how had the prim and proper Councillor tolerated his existence? That didn’t square with what Eivan had just said, not at all.

“Garsha was the Fir’s favorite?” he asked, curious now. “That must have been hard for him.”

Eivan shot him a cold glance. “Don’t pretend you care. I could tell the second you walked in here that you don’t give a fuck about my Fir.”

Tilrey was feeling more and more muddled. Until tonight, he’d known Enrik Lindahl mainly as a person who got off on making him recite square roots in bed. It was hard to imagine anyone caring for the man. “Out there, when you were mouthing off to him, you didn’t seem to care much about him, either.”

“You don’t know the first thing about us.” It came out in a snarl.

“I know. I’m sorry.” The situation was more complicated than he’d realized. Maybe he should retreat to safe territory. “But I could make you happy, Eivan, like the Fir said. If you like. _He_ seems to care about you.”

“He does.” Eivan sighed. “Too much.”

Again Tilrey couldn’t help being curious. “Do you feel the same way about him?”

After a silent moment, Eivan whooped with laughter. He sat up and offered the vial to Tilrey. “You some kind of romantic, kid?”

Tilrey refused it. “Of course not. But you said—”

“Like I said, you don’t know anything about the Fir and me.” Eivan emptied the vial down his gullet and drew his knees to his chest, his eyes swimming with tears. “Are you friends with Ansha? You must be. All you pieces stick together. What’d he tell you?”

“Nothing much.” Now Tilrey saw a way in. “And we’re not friends. Ansha’s a dick. He hates me because I get more attention than he does. I’m guessing he feels the same way about you? Because you and the Fir are close?”

Eivan nodded. “That little bastard thinks I’m a climber, a parasite on the Lindahl family, because that’s what _he_ is.”

“He’s such a brown-noser. The way he fawns on Strutters.”

Tilrey had never complained about Ansha before; it felt wrong to badmouth a fellow kettle boy, bad blood or not. But he sensed a dark and thorny subtext in everything Eivan said, and he wanted to bring it to light. It might be useful to him and Gersha the way his discoveries about Besha and Niko Karishkov had been.

“Huh. Yeah. Ansha wants the Fir to adore him, and he doesn’t know the first thing about Enrishka. Or about me.” Eivan looked straight at Tilrey. “Do _you_ think I’m a parasite on the Lindahl family?”

“I just met you. Why would I think that?”

“Everybody does.” A small shrug. “They think I took advantage of Enrishka and his sister. They can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be kept from your own son.”

All of a sudden, the missing piece snapped into the puzzle. Feeling very stupid, Tilrey said, “ _You’re_ Garsha Lindahl’s father. He _was_ a misbirth. You and the Councillor’s sister . . .”

“I was her secretary first.” Eivan reached over, opened a drawer in the headboard, and pulled out a fresh vial. “It happens sometimes, you know—a mistake. A miscalculation with the contraceptives. After she found out, she dismissed me from her service. Wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t tell me anything, wouldn’t let me see him—our son. My Garsha. She passed him off as her husband’s. Wouldn’t even let me come to my son’s cremation.”

He poured at least a quarter-vial into his palm and popped it in his mouth. “I can’t believe you don’t already know this. It’s not a secret in our circles, you know.”

Of course. Verán knew; it was part of the subtext of his spiteful reaction to poor Garsha’s death. “It was before my time, I guess.” Tilrey felt an unexpected jab of empathy for the secretary. “Is that why you stayed close to Councillor Lindahl? To be closer to your son?”

“Enrishka was the only one who was decent to me. He found ways for Garsha and me to see each other.” Eivan licked his palm, his eyes swimming again. “She didn’t want us to. Thought it was safer. I would never have known my kid without the Fir.”

 _And you gave him your love and your body in return._ Based on what he’d seen in the living room, Tilrey could tell Lindahl had done a lot more than just take pity on Eivan. He’d taken advantage of the situation—until it got out of his control.

He couldn’t shake the memory of Lindahl’s voice saying, “You’re supposed to make me _laugh_.” “Forgive me,” he said, “but it’s a little hard for me to imagine Lindahl being that . . . decent.”

“You think he’s a cold prig, huh? No emotions? Believe me, he’s got sides you don’t know.”

 _And I don’t want to_. But plenty of people thought Gersha was a cold prig with no emotions, too. Maybe Lindahl and Eivan had shared forms of tenderness Tilrey knew all too well.

“Just now, though,” he said, rejecting the comparison. “He was so angry at you.”

“He’s under a lot of stress.” Eivan wasn’t looking at him. “Things changed between us after Garsha died. Some of it’s my fault.”

“It’s not, though.” Tilrey couldn’t imagine losing a child. “How can he still expect you to ‘make him laugh’? You’re both in mourning.”

The older man sighed. “He tries to understand that. But he wants me to stay the way I was.”

Tilrey didn’t want to believe Gersha would ever treat him the way Lindahl had treated Eivan in the living room—raging, condescending, pleading. But now he’d had the thought, he couldn’t help imagining things ending that way between them. What if he did become Gersha’s secretary, and it tore them apart?

“Do you still want to be with him?” he asked. “Or will he not let you go?”

Instead of answering, Eivan twisted to examine the clock on the headboard. “We should stay in here for at least an hour so he thinks you did your job.” He turned back and ran his eyes dispassionately over Tilrey. “What are you best at?”

“My mouth. I can give you a quick one if you want.” The words came automatically, and then Tilrey hated himself.

The secretary slid over and patted his shoulder. “I’ll tell him you sucked me off, and it was mind-blowing, but no thanks. You’re just a kid. Not much older than my Garsha would’ve been, I bet.”

Tilrey stared at the duvet. “Councillor Lindahl doesn’t seem to mind my age.”

“Councillors always want the young ones.” Sprawled beside him, Eivan dipped into the vial again. “There must be something special about you, though. Enrishka thinks most whores are too stupid to waste his precious time on. He won’t even fuck poor Ansha. Did you crack the top fifteen on the E-Squareds, by any chance?”

“Yeah.” Tilrey remembered his first night with Lindahl. “He looked up my scores and lectured me about not living up to my potential. Does he always do that?”

Eivan barked with laughter. “It’s his kink. His obsession. You’re lucky he never made you retake the fucking test with him proctoring.”

Tilrey felt lucky indeed. “It’s funny how some Strutters don’t want to think we have brains, and others, it’s all they care about.”

“Tell me about it. You want to hear something fucked up? The Fir tried to convince Garsha to cheat on the test. To hack it.”

The words didn’t make sense. “Lindahl wanted his nephew to _cheat_?”

“Yup, and not for the reason you think. Garsha’s Notification was never in doubt. He was always gonna ace that test. But Enrishka gave him this speech about how hacking it was a rite of passage, a way to prove you were at the tippy-top of the pyramid. Said he and his best friends did it when they were that age. I had to step in and remind him Garsha wasn’t somebody who could play games with his future.”

For once, Tilrey was actually shocked. He made a mental note to ask Gersha if he’d heard of a cheating rite of passage. “If you cheat, how does that prove you’re superior?”

“Don’t ask me to explain the workings of high-Upstart brains.” Eivan tipped the vial into his mouth.

Before he could stop himself, Tilrey asked, “Why are you still with the Fir? If you were doing it only to see Garsha . . .”

Eivan held the vial up to the light. “Relationships are messy, kid. You wouldn’t know. And you know what else is messy? Grieving your only son.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay. Enrishka, he loved Garsha like I did. We can talk to each other. We make each other’s lives a living hell, blaming each other, but at least we can talk about him.” Eivan tossed the empty vial away. “And that’s a lot better than nothing.”

Tilrey wanted to retort that he understood relationships, messy ones included. But he had a dawning sense that he had a great deal to learn.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You’re not all wrong.” Eivan’s eyes met his at last, cloudy with regret. “Sooner or later I’ll leave Enrik Lindahl, and giving me ‘gifts’ won’t change that, and he knows it. And he and I will probably be worse people alone than we were together, and that won’t stop me. I’m just . . . not ready yet.”

***

Gersha was determined not to be defeated by Verán’s requirements for a new kettle boy. If finding one meant asking Besha for leads, he would—and, to prove his commmitment, he messaged the odious little man on his way home and detoured to his villa.

He found Besha sitting alone and heavy-lidded before the fire on a sofa littered with children’s toys. “I’m not allowed to clean up,” he explained, dipping his pinky finger in a vial. “Blas and Gunde have to do it themselves first thing tomorrow. It’s supposed to teach them responsibility.”

“An excellent lesson,” Gersha said. He felt awkward being alone with Besha and even more awkward about the topic he was about to broach.

Besha rolled his eyes. “Kids don’t understand responsibility. They think in terms of treats and punishments, and that’s very sensible of them. But try telling that to my lovely wife.”

He offered the vial to Gersha—who shook his head—and then stretched out with his chin propped on a hand, eyes glinting slyly. “Now, tell me, what brings you here so late, _ally_?”

Gersha flinched at the word, hoping Davita wasn’t in earshot. But it was only the truth; thanks to Tilrey’s cleverness, he and his enemy were now allies. Even, on one memorable occasion, bed partners. “I need your expertise . . .”

Before he even finished explaining, Besha’s face had darkened. “You want the boy all to yourself,” he said. “You can’t expect me to help you—unless you’re going to blackmail me again, which I hope you wouldn’t stoop to. Not over a piece.”

 _Damn him, damn all of them._ “I’m not trying to have him to myself.” Gersha clenched a fist behind his back. “You know Tilrey better than most—he deserves something better than this. A posting where he can use his brain. And, as I pointed out to Verán, he’s about to turn twenty-five.”

The number that had convinced Verán failed to have the same magical effect on Besha. “So what?” he said, scowling. “The two of you are thick as thieves, I can see that.”

“That’s not the point—”

“And yes, he’s more than clever enough to be your secretary.” Besha jabbed another finger in the vial, his lips settling into a distinct pout. “But I like him, and I want him, and you can’t come here and ask me to _help_ you take away something I want. It’s not my way.”

Gersha’s skin was crawling. Though he’d just arrived, he craved the fresh air. “No, it’s not your way,” he said, rising, fist still clenched at his side. “It was foolish of me to think you might help simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

Besha’s eyes narrowed. “What did I just tell you? Treats and punishments make the world go round. I _might_ help you if it’s worth my while.”

Gersha had no intention of finding out what sort of “treat” Besha wanted. “No, thank you,” he said. “I should be getting home.”

Besha followed him to the threshold of the coldroom. “You give up so easily,” he complained. “Your boy’s way better at handling me than you are. If you send him over to negotiate, I’m sure we could find a solution.”

Gersha answered this only with a glare, and Besha laughed. “Don’t take me so seriously.” As Gersha stepped outside, he added, “Really, though. Send him over. Worth a try, right?”

Gersha was tempted to make a rude schoolboy gesture, but the door was already sealing behind him. “Goodbye, Besha,” he said.

And good riddance. For the first several steps, he was fuming, but he calmed down quickly. He needed to focus on being outdoors in the strange, pearly dusk of a white night.

Gersha would never get used to summer in the Southern Range. The temperatures were so high he needed only a light jacket, and the snow had all melted and been replaced by cold, wet snarls of grass.

When he was young, his father and uncle had taught him the taiga was dangerous in high summer, roamed by hungry bears and swarmed by disease-carrying insects. His peers had received the same warnings. So it was a shock when he explained the dangers to Tilrey, and the boy laughed and said, “Sometimes I don’t understand Upstarts. Summer is the _best_ time to be outdoors.”

After that, Gersha had allowed Tilrey to take him for a few short walks in the summer woods. He nodded politely at strange sights like flowers, mushrooms, and berries growing outside a greenhouse. But the heat made his skin itch, and he was always on his guard.

Like now, for instance—was that an owl hooting in the tree above him? It sounded almost mocking, as if Besha had followed him out here.

And there, up ahead—he froze, straining his eyes to penetrate the shadows of a copse. A tall, lumbering shape detached itself from the bushes and headed straight toward him. If it was a bear—

“Gersha?”

Gersha’s heart took a wild leap as the shape lunged toward him, closing the distance. Then it grabbed hold of him and became Tilrey, and he relaxed into the strong arms, his heart settling into a hectic, happy rhythm.

“Are you okay?” Tilrey peered down at him. “You’re trembling like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just startled.” At least it wasn’t light enough for Tilrey to see how pale he was. “I didn’t know you’d be finished before morning.”

“I got lucky.” Tilrey wound an arm around Gersha’s waist and led him toward the villa at a leisurely pace. “Now I’m here to keep you safe from marauding bears.”

“Stop it! I only said that the one time.” Gersha elbowed his lover playfully, then nestled into the crook of his arm. He did feel safer now.

“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” Tilrey pointed at the sky, where faint stars still showed in the west. “You can almost see Scorpius.”

Normally they were wary of expressing their affection so close to Upstart dwellings, but the half-light of the small hours made it feel safe. The windows of the villas stayed dark while the eastern sky brightened, the grass wet with dew that shivered under their feet.

In front of the villa, they stopped, neither eager to go inside. The tremble of warmth in the air did something to Gersha’s blood. He let his head droop on Tilrey’s shoulder. And then, before he knew it, his back was against a pine and Tilrey was holding him fast and bending to kiss him.

Their lips met and parted, met and parted again—just the briefest, tantalizing taste. His rough cheek rubbed Tilrey’s, generating a teasing friction. Their bodies pressed together, and Gersha wondered for a mad moment if people ever had sex in the grass.

But that would be too easy, and he knew what he really needed to do—tell Tilrey what had been preoccupying him. He’d been meaning to get everything squared away and save it for a birthday surprise, but his plan was harder to execute than he’d hoped. He needed Tilrey’s help, and he had to ask for it here and now, in the darkness under the trees, in case Tilrey didn’t react well.

It was a possibility Gersha hadn’t considered till this very second, but now it seemed painfully obvious. Tilrey liked to be in on plans. He didn’t like surprises. And this was a plan that concerned his very own future.

Tilrey’s thigh planted itself between Gersha’s legs and applied delicious pressure to his crotch, but Gersha didn’t reciprocate. “I told Verán tonight,” he said in a small, contrite voice. “I told him it’s time for you to stop being the party’s kettle boy and become my secretary.”

Tilrey tensed and pushed Gersha away from him—only to arm’s length, but enough. “You _told_ him? I thought we were going to wait and do this slowly. Convince him it was his own idea.”

Gersha’s breath caught. “I can’t wait anymore, Rishka. Seeing you like this . . .” He clutched handfuls of Tilrey’s tunic, that degrading parody of Upstart clothing. He thought of Tilrey dressing himself so carefully this evening, bathing and combing his hair, preparing himself for Lindahl’s bed. “I can’t stand it, love. And Verán didn’t say no.”

Tilrey was all business now, no erotic languor in his voice. “Really? And what did Verán say? Has he decided I’m not useful enough to keep around?”

“Of course not.” Gersha hated that word. “Is that really what you want, love? For the old bastard to think you’re useful?”

Tilrey’s hands slipped from Gersha’s shoulders. “When the other options are moral rehab or a cell?”

 _Those aren’t the only options. Not anymore._ Forcing himself to stay on target, Gersha quickly summarized his conversation with Verán.

Tilrey listened without comment—his body still boxing Gersha’s in, though they were no longer touching. When Gersha got to the part where Verán was shocked to learn his age, he barked with laughter. “That’s my Visha. He lives in his own little bubble. Did he change his tune after that?”

“Sort of.” Gersha enumerated Verán’s requirements for a kettle boy.

“Should be easy, then,” Tilrey said, cocking his head. He seemed to be relaxing.

“Right, real easy. He suggested I go to Besha for help, so I did. But Besha’s useless.” Gersha wouldn’t repeat any of the offensive things Besha had said; they might upset Tilrey again. “He might as well have laughed in my face.”

“I could have told you he would.” Tilrey flicked a curl off Gersha’s face, sending a pleasant shiver down Gersha’s spine. “He’d probably be willing to accept an arrangement, love. A certain number of nights with me in exchange for—”

“No.” Gersha was a little shocked by the snarl that came out of him. “I mean,” he qualified, “that’s a last resort. It can’t be that hard to find a decent kettle boy.”

“No.” His arm sneaking round Gersha’s waist, Tilrey led him toward the lighted steps. “It can’t be that hard. Will you let me take charge of it from here?”

“If you like.” Gersha was a little embarrassed by the relief he felt. By rights, he should be taking charge. He should be Tilrey’s savior. But maybe it was better to use teamwork on this, as they had on their previous problems. “You must have the right contacts,” he suggested hopefully.

“I have some ideas.” Tilrey paused to kiss Gersha before unsealing the door.

Once they were inside the villa, their bodies came together with all the force of summer warmth and pent-up need. There were no more words.

On the living room floor, they peeled off each other’s clothes and strained and grunted and eventually rutted like woodland animals. Then they lay and watched the room fill with dawn, not having bothered to turn on the lights. Sated for the moment, they moved to the comfort of the bedroom, where they rested in each other’s arms, their naked bodies lightly glazed with sweat.

Tilrey pressed his face to Gersha’s collarbone. “Thank you.”

Gersha tangled a hand in the dark-gold hair, feeling an urge to press Tilrey tighter, tighter, until they became one being. He wanted to carry Tilrey around inside him, to shield him from Verán and Lindahl and Besha and all the others.

But Tilrey remained a separate person from him, sometimes even a mysterious person. So Gersha asked, “For what?”

“For talking to Verán.” Tilrey sighed. “If you’d asked my advice, I’d have said to wait a year or so longer. I’d have been . . . scared of him. But you’re his equal. You know you can handle him. You went right ahead and did it.”

“You’re prudent, not scared. I don’t think you’re ever scared of anything.” _Not like I am._ Still full of that desperate need to protect Tilrey, Gersha clasped his hand and interlaced their fingers. “I went because I can’t stand hearing Verán order you around anymore, love. It makes me sick to my stomach. With any luck, in a few months you’ll be free.”

Tilrey squeezed Gersha’s hand, his face hidden against Gersha’s neck. “Free,” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to wedge some of Lindahl's backstory into this story, and it turned out to be complicated. So now there'll be three chapters.
> 
> I realized as I wrote this that it kind of feels like it's foreshadowing Gersha and Tilrey losing a child and then falling apart, so I feel obliged to say Ceill is NOT going to die. Lindahl/Eivan is just a dark parallel that Tilrey will carry with him, a cautionary example of how this kind of relationship can go wrong. Anyway, thanks for reading! <3


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